The Rising of the Storm
by AKA
Summary: The Psychonauts were not the only psychic organization in the world merely the most honorable. There were several other psychic agencies that focused on less idealistic goals. Vladimir Galachio represented one such organization.
1. Rising Winds

**A/N:** …Corruption of the Mind will be updated after this, I swear. Really.

**Props to TyraaRane for letting me borrow Cassini.** (Read Cassini's Rainbow on her livejournal. Sasha/Milla fic. [/pimpage

**The Rising of the Storm**

**Chapter One: Rising Winds**

The Psychonauts were not the only psychic organization in the world; they were merely the most overt and the most honorable. There were several other psychic agencies—within the government and without--that had their attention focused on less idealistic goals. Vladimir Galachio represented one such organization, and in the past, they had triumphed over the Psychonauts in the interest of their own goals and occasionally as mercenaries for rival governments, discrediting their leaders or crippling them as was necessary.

Recently, that has not been the case. The failed kidnapping of Truman Zanotto was proof of that.

The Psychonauts were _gaining_ strength, and they were gaining it fast; if left unchecked, they would upset the delicate balance of power in the psychic world. But they were still weak in certain areas—areas he intended to exploit. If he was to succeed where his father failed, then he needed to strike those areas soon.

This is what brought him to America and, specifically, towards his current objective in what could best be described as the most depressing and unsafe building he had ever seen. The discolored orange wallpaper was covered in mold and peeling away from the walls, the wooden floor was uneven and creaked under the weight of his footsteps, and there were a number of stains along both that resembled dried bloodstains. Tenants argued with one another in the hall, yelling and screaming over a variety of subjects—rent, food, clothes, the bastard that ratted out their neighbor's dealings with the drug industry—occasionally yelling at Vladimir himself as he and the two men he had brought with him walked down the hall.

He ignored them, pondering the latest development in the game as Charlie and Gustav, distant cousins to the Galachio family and useful only as pawns, stormed down the hall, searching for the particular apartment. Andrea had betrayed them. In all honesty, it wasn't surprising; she had always been weak and her loyalty was never assured. He was just surprised she had turned against them so soon. She had betrayed the family and gone to the Psychonauts with information that they couldn't afford to have revealed. If the Psychonauts _really_ knew what happened the night Ford Cruller's mind was shattered…

He needed to silence Andrea and distract the Psychonauts. Most importantly, he needed to send them a message—one that reminded them of their proper place.

He needed a man like Jack Dougal.

"Room 306. This is it, boss." Charlie said, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his leather jacket, fidgeting restlessly. It was a quirk of his that Vladimir found annoying at the best of times and infuriating at the worst; the man could never sit _still_. His eyes were always moving above flaring nostrils, giving one the impression of a cornered, rabid rat. "Right, Gus?"

Gustav rumbled, cracking his knuckles eagerly. Towering over most men at six and a half feet tall with thick muscle covering every inch, Gustav had never been one for scholarly pursuits. Vladimir suspected the man was barely capable of dressing himself without someone telling him to do so every morning.

At his nod, Gustav kicked the door open, breaking the doorknob and lock in the process and sending them clattering across the floor inside the apartment. The door slammed open and shook the flimsy walls of the apartment, causing a chunk of plaster to fall from the ceiling and land with a hollow thump next to the doorknob.

A calm voice came from inside, "You realize they're going to take that out of my security deposit."

The voice came from the center of the room where a man of average build lounged across a broken, moth eaten couch. He was staring up at the ceiling when the door first flew open and turned to look at his visitors, sitting up carefully and slowly. The man idly flipped open a lighter in his hand and grinned at his visitors. Their sudden entrance apparently had no effect on him. Vlad stood in the doorway while Charlie and Gustav stood over the man, ready to persuade him in other ways should Vladimir's speech fail to earn his loyalty.

Vladimir looked him up and down, making no effort to hide his scrutiny. The man's hair was a dark brown with hints of red along the roots and kept at the level of his ears. His eyes were a strange color, a mixture of green and blue resulting in a dark shade of grey. A strangely still man, Jack would have easily blended in with the majority of the population were it not for three things. The first and most obvious would be the two scars that ran parallel to one another across his face, as if someone had taken a rake from his forehead to his chin, leaving twin trails of angry red scar tissue in its wake. Less obvious was the way he carried himself. Everything about him suggested the strength and grace of a large feline and every movement he made was the calculated step of a dangerous predator. Any hint of weakness would be noticed and exploited in his favor. It was the last thing that set Jack apart from the rest of humanity that disturbed most. His eyes. There was a far off glimmer within them that hinted at a cruel nature barely kept in check.

Vladimir himself wasn't an imposing figure; just under six feet tall and almost dangerously thin, he wouldn't last long in a fight. A physical one, that is. "Jack Dougal." He said carefully, his Romanian accent slipping in around the vowels. "I would have a word with you."

"Vlad." Jack replied warmly, as though he was greeting an old friend. Vladimir bristled both at the informal use of his name and the warm tone that somehow came across as mocking, "I was expecting you. In fact, I'm a bit surprised at how long it's taken you to find me… Can I get you a drink?"

Vlad raised his hand and shook his head. "No, thank you. And it was quite easy to find you."

His one try at civility thwarted, Jack shrugged. "Then you're better than the some of the Psychonauts' finest, Vlad. I've kept them on the run for years--"

"With help." Vlad interrupted gently, "Had I not intervened on your behalf, Agent Vodello would have caught you long ago."

Jack's eyes narrowed and his voice took on a slightly colder tone. "Yes. With help. I had thought that particular debt was paid off when I killed that retrocognitive in Germany for you."

"I assure you, that debt is fully paid. I only wished to remind you of your friends." His voice was soothing, but the message was clear. Vladimir knew Jack to be a proud man, and he disliked having to rely on others. He hated to be treated as an inferior even more. "Which is why I dropped in. I need to ask you for a favor—as a friend, of course."

The other man was silent, then sighed and leaned back against his half destroyed couch, toying with the flame from his lighter. "I'm afraid I have to refuse, Vlad. Politics don't interest me in the least, and there is nothing you can blackmail me with." He grinned again with a lack of sincerity that Vlad now knew to be mocking. "I am perfectly aware of my vices."

Vladimir regarded him silently for a few moments. Without Jack, it was possible for him to succeed, but the losses on his side would be unforgivable, and he was less likely to succeed in his current mission. With Jack's expertise, they stood an honest to God chance—and if things fell apart, the man would make an excellent scapegoat. But blackmail was out of the question; he was not easily scared into obedience, and would fight every inch of the way to gain his freedom if forced to do something against his will. Charlie and Gustav would undoubtedly convince him to their cause, but his continued loyalty would be questionable at best and Vladimir was not fond of keeping track of Jack as an enemy.

He quickly thought back through all he knew of Jack, trying to find a way to pique his interest or coerce his decision, watching the man closely. His eyes paused on the scars across the Jack's face. That he hadn't gone to the trouble to hide such recognizable features suggested a certain amount of pride in the way he had earned them. Quirking an eyebrow, he spoke again. "Not even if I promised you the agent that caused those scars?"

Jack froze, his eyes focusing on something beyond Vladimir as he raised his hand to the lightly touch the scars across his face. After a few moments he lowered his hand to scratch his chin and watched Vlad warily. "You can do that?"

"Of course, you would have to swear your loyalty to me and do _exactly_ as I say." Vladimir replied evenly, his tone casual as he idly kicked a piece of plaster across the floor. "I understand that the two of you have a…rich history."

Jack's grin was enough to make Vladimir feel uneasy, but he stood by his decision. One did not make a deal with a monster like Jack Dougal without paying in blood.

Vladimir was only too happy to offer up the blood of another. And what was one life in the grand scheme of things anyway?

* * *

Sasha wasn't sure when the dreams began, but he knew that they always ended the same. Sometimes, he would dream of normal things--work, his father, and occasionally Milla--but no matter how they started, the end was always the same.

He was standing amongst the ruins of a burning building. Flames crackled and snapped, creating a steady orange glow that cast unreal shadows across the scene as they grew in strength. He could hear the distant rumble of thunder and lightning occasionally illuminated the dreary setting, revealing the dried, twisted corpses of people, contorted and screaming silently in pain through cracked and blistered lips, unseeing eyes staring up at him in a silent plea for help that would never be answered. He shuddered, shying away from the bodies and bumped into a young woman, whose face was constantly in shadow. She held a manila folder to her chest, arms wrapped around it tightly. He stared at her in confusion, suddenly feeling nauseated.

"Don't worry," she said, voice wavering slightly. "They promised not to kill you."

"Who? Who's _'they'_?" She only smiled sadly in response, clinging to that manila folder. He snapped at her, his voice sounding oddly desperate. "Answer me!"

She looked up at him suddenly with an expression so despairing it bordered on pathetic. "Please forgive me."

The flames engulfed him before he had a chance to respond, searing his skin with such intensity that he could only scream in pain.

He woke up with a hoarse cry, twisted up in his bed sheets, sweating profusely. He was only aware of the rain pelting his window and his sudden, violent urge to vomit. Groaning, he rolled out of bed and clumsily sprinted for the bathroom, halfway dragging one of his blankets down the hall. Once he recovered, he staggered back to his bed, glancing towards his window as a thunderclap shook the panes of glass. _The storm must be getting close_, he thought sleepily.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he leaned down to rest his elbows on his knees and began to massage his temples. He was dizzy from nausea and the effort it had taken to race to the bathroom, and his head was pounding in time with the sound of the rain outside. Worst of all, the urgency from the dream gnawed at him, leaving him filled with a need to express a message that he wasn't fully aware of to someone unknown party who desperately needed it. A staple of precognitive dreams. One of his mentors, Cassini, described it as "having to shit in specific toilet in city full of them." Cassini had been drunk at the time, but the description always stuck with him.

He considered calling Milla. She was always the better at figuring out precognitive dreams; he was too analytical and often focused on details that were ultimately unimportant when compared to the 'message' of the dream. He had almost finished dialing her number when he realized two things, the first being that she had just recently returned from an extended stay with her family and was most likely struggling to overcome severe jet lag.

The second was the dream woman herself. Fire was destructive in dreams, and female figures almost always represented some sort of mother figure if one put any stock in Freud. This could just be a simple nightmare--latent guilt over his mother's death, perhaps. Logically, he knew he had no part in his mother's death, but what one knew to be fact and what one felt were often quite different.

Yet he still felt the urge to call her, to hear her voice, thick with sleep and more than likely annoyed at the interruption of her rest. Her accent always came through a bit more when she was tired, a quirk he found endearing. He was almost convinced that hearing her speak would be enough to calm him down.

He'd found himself wanting such things with alarming frequency lately, and he wondered if it he wasn't becoming a bit more attached to her than he had any right to. For many long years, work had provided all the gratification he needed in his life. It was a lonely existence, but it always seemed natural for a man who preferred solitude over company.

In the end, he set the phone down and decided to go to work early.


	2. Distant Thunder

**Chapter Two: Distant Thunder**

Sasha realized something the moment he opened the door to his office later that morning.

He had nothing to do.

In the past three days he'd finished every late report (including Milla's), updated the status of every case currently on his desk (again, as well as Milla's), and answered queries concerning the funding for his latest project (doomed to failure, of course, but he still had some faint hope of getting it started). If nothing else, his nightmares had made his work habits even more efficient.

As it was, he found himself in need of something to do to keep his mind off of things. He could always go into Milla's office and retrieve a few files with cases that needed to be reviewed but…he wasn't entirely comfortable with that. Not when she wasn't in her office, anyway.

He wasn't sure when he finally fell asleep, but it was a welcome respite from the migraine he'd suffered all morning. He'd been lulled into it by the steady pounding of the rain outside and the silence of the hallways inside. It wasn't until he heard someone clear their throat behind him that he snapped awake.

"You know, Nein, we do pay you enough to afford a place to stay." The voice was harsh, not unlike the braying of an obnoxious donkey. Which was fitting, in a way, since Sasha often thought of the voice's owner as an utter ass.

Agent Harpham, nearly twice the age of most agents employed by the Psychonauts and never hesitant to remind them of it, stood at a mere five and a half feet tall. His hair was an oily black, glued to his scalp with an unnecessary amount of hair product, with a hairline that seemed to be in full retreat towards his neck. He was currently smirking at Sasha, holding a thick manila folder against his chest.

Annoyed and more than a little embarrassed at being caught unawares, Sasha snapped at him as he straightened his tie. "Yes, Harpham? I assume you came in here for a reason. You don't tend to waste your time on the lower classes."

Harpham chuckled, handing Sasha a memo. "Funny, Nein, I didn't know Germans were capable of humor."

"We aren't. We're honest." He replied, taking the paper and scanning it over. He frowned. "…What the hell is this?"

"Ah, yes, that's why I came. It seems Judge Garrison has requested your presence in his courtroom this morning."

"I'm well of aware of that. What I want to know is _why._" He frowned, his headache returning full force. Garrison had been a necessary evil ever since word of the Whispering Rock incident got out—it was obvious to the government that the Psychonauts couldn't be bothered to keep tabs on the actions of their agents, so they sent someone in to help them along. Someone who had no idea what it was like to be psychic and didn't care to hear about it. Like most other government agencies, the Psychonauts would have happily ignored Garrison—were it not for the fact that he had the power to suspend agents from fieldwork indefinitely.

Harpham was all but grinning. "I believe he said something about the Betruger case."

"_Mein Gott—_that was _years_ ago. What on earth would make him look into _past_ cases?" The Betruger case had been one of his first assignments—an undercover operation that ended messily. He'd spent a month in the hospital recovering from it.

"Well, ever since Oleander decided to deal with his inner bunny issues, most of the other agents have cleaned up their acts. And we can't just let a man like Garrison sit around all day with nothing to do…so I gave him access to some of our old cases. To keep him busy, you know." He said, idly toying with the line of pens arranged across Sasha's desk.

Sasha grumbled, waving him away from his desk. "Only Truman can grant someone access to those files—"

"Unfortunately, Grandmaster Truman was called away to help the President assure the public that they're safe from the psychic terrorists running rampant across Europe." He shrugged. "He'll be gone for the rest of the day. Which leaves me in charge."

If Sasha knew Truman wouldn't have his head for it, he would've set Harpham's oily head aflame and laughed maniacally while the man burned. As it was, he scowled at paper in his hand. Harpham, his task complete, turned to leave and then paused and looked down at the folder in his hand. In a move that was obviously practiced, he casually spoke over his shoulder to Sasha, flipping through the file.

"If you see Milla, tell her to come by my office. I've got an assignment for her. Pity you won't be able to join her, but…"

What had only been mild annoyance now turned to full blown anger. Sasha's tone broke away from the carefully neutral and entered outright hostility. "She just got _back_ from a solo assignment! You can't keep sending her out alone—"

"Actually, she just got back from a vacation _after_ a solo assignment." He pointed this out with a softness that was almost patronizing. "Relax, Nein, it's not as if we're working her to death. Besides, she isn't going alone."

That did nothing to calm his anger, but it did distract him temporarily. Sasha quirked a brow at him. "_What?_"

"Yes. She's going with Agent Aquato." Sensing his already worn out welcome coming to an end, Harpham walked out of Sasha's office, calling back to the fuming agent. "Send him by my office, too. Thanks!"

Once Sasha overcame the sudden violent urge to chase Harpham down and throw him off the roof of the building (preferably getting struck by a bolt of lightning on the way down), he folded up the memo Harpham had given him and walked out into the hall, shutting the door behind him. He was so focused on keeping control of his temper that he didn't notice it at first. A slight, tingling sensation along the back of his neck, as if someone was watching him. He became more alert, pausing outside his door to straighten his tie while sought out the hidden watcher, tentatively seeking out any psychic traces. It took him awhile, but he finally came across one. It was very faint; whoever was watching him knew how to keep hidden, though their form was a bit sloppy. _Ah. The ceiling._

Now that he focused on energy and knew the general location of where it came from, he was able to seek out the source. This, too, took longer than he would like to admit, possibly due to the migraine, but he found it. Suppressing a small smirk, the agent glanced up at the ceiling. "Good morning, Razputin."

There was a brief pause, and then the ceiling replied, "You're creepy."

A moment later, a thin, lanky form emerged from the ceiling and dropped down beside Sasha with a grace the older agent envied. Razputin Aquato, twelve years old and well on his way to becoming one of the greatest agents the Psychonauts had ever seen, stood up to Sasha's shoulder after enduring a sudden growth spurt over the past year. He was still painfully thin, and his eyes had never quite lost that spark of innocence that Sasha had first seen two years ago at Whispering Rock. He hoped the young man wouldn't lose his cheerful outlook.

Amused, Sasha began to walk down the hall, followed by his lanky protégé. "How, exactly, am I creepy?"

"No one else has ever found me when I'm invisible, except for you." He thought for a moment, and then spoke again. "Heeey, I've never seen you without your sunglasses—they must have some sort of infrared scanner or something! That must be it!"

Snorting in amusement, Sasha shook his head. "No, though such scanners _do_ tend to reveal hidden psychics. I'm just more thorough at locating the source of psychic energy than others."

"Oh. Then you found me because you're obsessive-compulsive."

"_No_, I'm thorough. There's a difference."

"You're thoroughly obsessive compulsive?"

Sasha felt his migraine growing worse. "…Agent Harpham is looking for you. He says he has an assignment—" Before he was able to finish the sentence, Raz had sprinted down the hall in the opposite direction, eyes bright with excitement.

Shaking his head again, Sasha continued down the hall to Milla's office. They were once given the option to have their offices moved next to each other but the arrangements had never really gone through for some reason.

He paused just outside of it, surprised to find Milla's office door slightly ajar. She was forgetful at times, but she had never forgotten to lock up her office. His shock increased when he stepped inside to find Milla herself in the office; she wasn't known for being late, per se, but she was never so early. Cautiously, he pushed her door open and peered inside.

Her office was just as colorful and full of character as Milla herself. The walls were covered in bright posters and plaques commemorating selfless acts to her fellow Psychonauts in the line of duty. Pictures of her family in Brazil and mementos from the campers at Whispering Rock often decorated the wall next to her door and it was one of these that briefly caught his eye. It was a photo of himself along the banks of Lake Oblongata, sopping wet with his clothes clinging to his thin body in the sunlight as he telekinetically held an angry Bobby Zilch away from an oblivious Vernon waving at the camera. A canoe, billowing black smoke into the sky, sank beneath the water behind them. He smirked, remembering the occasion.

Two years ago, Milla had insisted on teaching the children how to canoe and somehow convinced him to help, claiming he would actually like the children if he only spent more time with them. One fiery boat ride later, she admitted that maybe it wasn't such a great idea after all, but at least she got a great picture out of it. After taking the picture down, he walked inside, taking a more focused look around.

She was idly toying with the lamp on her desk, frowning in thought. The action was a quirk—she once told him she couldn't quite think right unless she was doing something with her hands.

Her desk was cluttered and organized in a way that any logical person would find horrifying. It also bore a reproduction Tiffany lamp that he threatened to purge from existence on a daily basis. (He was almost convinced she kept it for the sole purpose of tormenting him.)

For someone who had just returned from an extended stay with their family, she looked horrible. There were bags under her eyes, and the playful spark usually present in her eye was curiously absent. It was as if some inner light within her had dimmed; her actions were off somehow, hesitant. That worried him. He wondered if he should try to talk to her, see if there was something wrong in her personal life--

_Not ethical, Nein. Insulting to her, as well; she deserves better than you._

Right. Of course. There were boundaries that shouldn't be crossed; the damage it would cause would be irreparable. He rapped against the door frame to get her attention and frowned at her startled jump. Something was clearly bothering her. When she saw it was him, she relaxed and smiled, waving him inside.

He walked in slowly, ignoring the offered chair. It would be best for them both if he didn't make himself too comfortable. "Ah, forgive me, I hadn't meant to startle you—"

"No, no, it's alright, Sasha." Her smile wasn't forced, but it wasn't as bright as he remembered. "What did you need, darling?"

"Agent Harpham is looking for you. He says he has an assignment he needs you to work on." There was a long pause and he spoke in a quieter, almost hesitant tone. "I also came by to welcome you back. You had, ah, quite the vacation, I presume."

"Mm, nothing worth mentioning. What kind of assignment does he have for us?" He quirked a brow at her; Milla always shared stories of her adventures at home (for that was what they always were—nothing was ever boring around Milla) with him.

"For you and Razputin, actually. I'm due for a hearing with our honorable judge."

Alarmed, she stopped toying with her lamp. "What? Why?"

"Harpham gave him access to the past cases and I was 'fortunate' enough to be the first agent he looked up. He's questioning the Bertruger case."

"Oh. When you—" At his look, she cleared her throat. "I'm sure you'll be able to convince him that what you did was necessary, darling. He's a…sensible man."

Sasha snorted. She reached over to squeeze his hand, giving him the first genuine smile he had seen from her today. "You'll be fine, Sasha. He can't suspend you from field work; Truman would have his head."

He gave a noncommittal grunt, though he was reassured by her support. "Perhaps. You _should_ go see Harpham before he strangles Razputin, however. I, ah, sent him ahead."

Milla chuckled, standing up from her desk. "You're an evil man, Nein. You know Harpham can't stand being near someone with a soul." Then, teasingly, "Maybe that's why he usually goes to speak with you above anyone else when he's in charge."

He smirked as they walked towards the door. "Very funny, Vodello. You should have been a comedian."

"Mm, but then I wouldn't be able to pick on you." She winked at him, grinning, and closed the door before walking down the hall. He found himself fighting down a slight blush.

A voice from inside the office across from Milla's spoke, laced with a British accent, "She's gotten awfully chummy with you, Nein. She'd be a lot more chummy with you if you'd let her, you know."

Sasha grumbled, embarrassment growing slightly. "So good of you to update me on Milla's preferences, Hobs. I wasn't aware your hearing had improved since the assignment in Britain."

"My hearing's fine, Nein. For example, I heard you have a meeting with Garrison."

Sighing, Sasha rubbed his temples. Sometimes, having an office near a telepathist was annoying. "If you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with the records department."

Hobs called after him. "I'm rootin' for ya, mate!"

Sasha sincerely hoped that would make a difference. Hoped, but doubted it. He still had a few hours to review the case file and prepare his defense.

Maybe that would be enough.

* * *

Milla had just barely stepped inside Harpham's office when the man greeted her. "Ah, Agent Vodello! I didn't hear you knock." 

"It's hard to knock on an open door, darling." She smiled, sitting down in one of the uncomfortable chairs Harpham had deemed appropriate for guests in his office. Razputin was perched on the other, peering over the man's desk, trying to peek at the file Harpham had secured under his palm. "I almost didn't recognize it; usually you have it locked and shut with guard dogs patrolling the halls."

Harpham's office was twice as large as most in Psychonauts HQ and he had been sure to fill it with furniture that reminded you of it. His desk was huge, polished to a bright sheen, and kept just far enough from the chairs that one had to lean forward at an uncomfortable angle to look at anything on his desk.

"You share your partner's talent for humor, Vodello." He said dryly, pushing a photo of a young woman towards them. "Your assignment is a simple one. I need you two to find this girl."

Milla's eyebrows rose. She recognized that face. "Andrea Ruszkiewcz? I was informed she had been killed."

Raz just stared at her. "How can you even _pronounce_ that?"

Harpham ignored Raz, speaking to Milla directly as he flipped through the manila folder. "That's what we thought, too, until Truman received a call from her this morning." He pulled a few papers from the file and handed them to her. Raz leaned over her shoulder to get a better look. "It seems she's alive and well—and in need of our protection. From what or whom, she refused to say, except that an underground organization is looking to kill her. She's holed up in southern Georgia, waiting for you two to come down and escort her back here."

Milla was scanning over the details of the case. "Condenar?"

"Some port town founded by a shipwrecked Spanish crew when Columbus got lost. It's been full of lowlifes and scum ever since." He leaned back in his chair. "We don't think any of the people looking for her has gotten wind of this just yet, but that won't last long. Someone's going to pick up her trail eventually."

"Then we should leave immediately before that happens." She sighed, taking the photograph. The woman in the picture was thin, with sunken brown eyes and a grim set to her jaw. "Do we any idea on where to meet her?"

"She gave us an address for some seedy hotel out in the boondocks. Brook Hollow Inn." He nodded to the folder, finally sliding it over to her. "The address and your plane tickets are in here."

Surprised, Milla flipped the folder open. "…These tickets are for a plane that leaves in three hours. The airport is half an hour away and neither of us is packed, Harpham."

He grinned and shrugged. "You said it yourself, Vodello. The sooner you leave, the less likely you'll run into trouble."

As they left his office, Milla idly wondered why no one had thrown Harpham out of a window just yet. Her thought was answered by another.

_Maybe they didn't want to ruin a good window?_

Raz grinned at her and she tried to give him a disapproving look, but failed and chuckled. "You need to spend less time with Sasha, darling. His cynical outlook is rubbing off on you." She glanced at the file in her hands and sighed. "We should leave now and buy clothes when we get to the town. The traffic in this weather will guarantee we miss our flight if we try to go home and pack."

"That's okay. I can get another three days out of these clothes." The young agent responded cheerfully when they walked towards the entrance and obediently showed their badges at the checkpoints along the way. The rain had worsened since that morning and was coming down with greater force, aided by a unseasonably warm wind.

Milla wrinkled her nose at the thought, unlocking her car in the parking lot and diving into the driver's seat before the rain ruined her hair. "That's not entirely healthy, sweetie."

Razputin grinned at her, sliding into the passenger seat. "Neither is dealing with Harpham."

She managed to give him a disapproving look this time, though it wasn't as harsh as she would have liked.

The moment they got on the road, Raz turned to other subjects, cheerfully asking her about past cases and if she used to be race car driver. Amused, she answered him, secretly glad that she wasn't forced to work another solo case—she needed time to recover from the last one.

And Razputin was providing her the distraction she needed to keep away from the memories of that disastrous mission in the desert.

* * *

Ten minutes later, a man left Psychonauts HQ and took a winding, circular route to a less reputable part of town. 

He was careful in both the location and time of the call. It wasn't likely that anyone would pick up his trail—psychically or otherwise—this far out, but it was better safe than sorry. Shrugging his jacket collar up over his ears in a vain attempt to shut out the harsh wind and even harsher rain, he ducked his head down and stepped into a phone booth, slamming the door shut behind him. After glancing around to make sure he hadn't been spotted, he dropped the required amount into the coin slots and pounded in an all too familiar number. After a few moments of listening to the rain, "They're on the way."

The voice on the other end was pleased, though warmth never once entered its tone. The Romanian accent was clear through the rain and wind. "Good. I have one more task for you."

The Psychonaut growled into the phone, clenching his fist. "No. I've done enough dirty work for you to cover my debt--"

"I don't believe you're in a position to refuse me, my friend. A simple phone call could easily clear up all the confusion concerning your partner's tragic disappearance…"

The man seethed, glaring at the phone. After several moments had passed, he spoke again, his tone carefully neutral. "What do you need me to do?"


	3. Into the Storm

**Chapter Three: Into the Storm**

It was silent in the hall outside Garrison's 'court' (really just a large office) save for the endless ticking of the clock down the hall in the lobby. The walls were kept blank and clean, which would have made the hallway desolate were it not for the windows that looked down onto the parking lot two floors below. Sasha stood alone in front of one, watching silently as lightning threaded through the dark clouds above, heralding the thunder that shook the window panes.

He was about to turn away when he noticed Milla's car backing out of her spot before speeding out of the parking lot and down the road that led to the security checkpoint. He frowned slightly; it wasn't like her to leave without saying goodbye. Harpham had no doubt given her little time to reach her destination. It would just be like him to give someone a case at the last possible second.

After silently wishing her luck and a safe return, he peered down at the thick manila folder clutched in his gloved hands and began to idly trace the words he had written across it so many years ago. The ink was faded, the cover worn, and some of the paper he had written his report across had turned a faint shade of yellow from age. He hadn't thought about this case in years, and the memories that resurfaced after he read his personal report were not pleasant. He fought to keep them from his mind, and found a welcome distraction in the conversation he couldn't help but overhear inside Garrison's office.

The voices were raised to such a high pitch that he couldn't help _but_ hear the conversation taking place and he was able to easily picture the scene behind that polished door, as the subject under questioning was a powerful clairvoyant and, as with all psychics under heavy stress, she was unwittingly projecting the proceedings to any unblocked psychic within one hundred feet of her.

Inside, the room was furnished with a heavy wooden desk, red carpet, and bookshelves full to the brim with slightly outdated books on law, legal proceedings, and criminal procedure. It also held the recent editions detailing every law concerning psychics and the use of psychic powers passed by Congress. A heavyset man in his late fifties sat behind a conspicuously neat desk, paging through a file not unlike the one Sasha held in his hands. There was almost nothing remarkable about him, save for the gray beard and the malice behind his eyes. The woman across from him was slowly beginning to lose her patience if her body language was any indication. She was of Asian descent, slim, and if her muscles tensed any further Sasha feared her spine would erupt from her back.

"Let me get this straight," Garrison said, looking utterly bored behind his desk. "You claim that your actions were justified because you had some sort of daydream—"

She cut him off, glaring at him. "A _clairvoyant_ vision, as I've said before—"

"A _vision_ told you he _might _have murdered the child and buried him in the park." Garrison paused, and then snorted. "I can see why you didn't try to get a warrant. Any judge with half a brain wouldn't come near it, let alone sign it."

Unable to help herself, the woman exploded. "For God's sake, he was _burning_ the little boy's schoolbag to get rid of evidence!"

"In your _vision_, you mean."

There was a long pause and Sasha feared the woman would leap across the desk and rip the man's head off. Finally, she spoke.

"Yes. In my vision." Her voice had turned cold, "Which has so far helped your government locate no less than _three_ psychic terrorists within this _very city._"

"I won't deny that your insight hasn't been helpful, but your actions have not. Harassing a _senator's son_ and accusing him of being a pedophile murdering children…" He shook his head.

"I did not _accuse_ him of anything! I _asked_ why he was seen at the boy's elementary school so often—"

Garrison sighed, and when it was clear he wouldn't listen to her, Agent Kim went silent. The man sounded bored, as if he were speaking of the weather. "You are hereby stripped of any and all field duties for the remainder of this case, which will be reassigned to one of our own agents. You are to continue recording your visions and provide whatever insight you may have to them, but you will _not_ engage in any actions towards the suspect in the field or otherwise."

Kim was stunned, then angry. "You can't be serious--"

"You're lucky, Agent Kim, that I didn't have you returned to your home agency. I'm not sure how you people do things in Korea, but here we have _rules_ that have to be followed." He was sure to make eye contact with the fuming agent, as if daring her to speak again. Finally, when the Korean agent turned away, he leaned back with a slight sigh. "Dismissed."

Kim stormed through the door, passing Sasha and muttering darkly in Korean, loudly expressing her suspicions about Garrison's sexual practices with barnyard animals through her thoughts. Whatever hope Sasha had of appealing to the man's logic had long since faded; explaining psychic abilities to Garrison would be like describing color to a blind man. Pointless and infuriating.

"Ah, Agent Nein. I see rumors of your promptness are based on fact. Come in, and close the door."

Sasha reluctantly did as he asked, closing the door behind him as the storm raged on outside.

* * *

_WARNING: Pressing the 'yes' button will __**permanently**__ delete the files specified. Do you want to continue?_ _Yes/No_

He had been staring at the computer's monitor for over three hours, his hand hovering over the mouse, wondering if he could do it. Ever since the phone call downtown, he realized that he would never be free from the madman's grip. He would simply be used a pawn, time and time again.

Not for the first time did he think of confessing his treason. And, just like every other time, he pushed the thought away. It would be suicide to admit his crimes now. He would be sent to prison, among the very criminals he had helped put there. Criminals with long memories and all the time in the world to plot revenge.

That didn't include what would happen to him if Vladimir discovered his betrayal. He would be _lucky_ to be put in prison then.

In the end, it was fear that finally gave him the courage to do it. He clicked 'yes,' then slumped back into his chair as the computer went blank. Every other computer that shared the network would follow suit shortly. It was temporary, really, but it would last enough to do what Vladimir needed to have done.

Harpham placed his head in his hands and waited for the first panicked report to filter down to his office.

* * *

"Caleb Betruger…he was the man you were sent after, correct?"

"Yes, it is. A paranoid telekinetic that wasn't in control of his powers and was absolutely convinced there was some sort of government plot against him."

"Hm. It says here he blamed the government for giving his mother drugs that _made_ him psychic?" Garrison snorted, reading through the file. From the way the man's eyes moved, Sasha could tell he was merely skimming over the report.

"It also says he placed the blame squarely on the doctor when he discovered his mother died during childbirth. He started harassing the doctor, first with threatening letters and then phone calls when the mail was discarded."

Garrison glanced up from the file to look at him. Sasha had never been one for responding to social cues, but he knew from that look that Garrison had made up his mind concerning the case. And the verdict was not in his favor.

"I can read, Agent Nein." He said coolly, "And all of this seems fine, right up until your plan to apprehend Bertruger. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what it was that made you _kill_ the man in front of a dozen witnesses!" He slammed the file down with such force that Sasha almost started out of his chair. "I respect you, Agent Nein, but this…

"You not only put the doctor's life at risk, you endangered the lives of civilians and nearly killed a fellow agent when your plan went to hell, not to mention the sheer amount of property damage." He shook his head. "My God, Sasha, you should've been thrown out of the agency for this."

Sasha's migraine was steadily growing worse and he found himself struggling to keep control of his temper. What could he say? That he was young and impatient? That he underestimated a desperate man? That he was lucky to have kept the body count down to just one? The man had never once been put into a situation where his actions could lead to the capture of a wanted criminal; he wouldn't understand the pressure and tension even if he cared to try. "With all due respect, sir, you're oversimplifying the situation—"

"It seems fairly simple to begin with." Garrison said evenly, closing the file and quirking a brow at the Psychonaut. "Frankly, I'm surprised Agent Cruller didn't suspend you himself. Of course, if your branch was a bit more responsible for the actions of its agents, I'd be out of a job—"

"I believe," Sasha said through gritted teeth, "That the file you have in your hands _clearly_ details the investigation Agent Cruller launched after the incident, as well as the results of said investigation."

"Yes, and were he _sane_ I would ask him why he thought you deserved to carry around that badge. You're suspended from fieldwork until further notice. Perhaps this will give you time to catch up on all of your paperwork." After a brief moment, he spoke softly. "You're dismissed, Agent Nein."

Sasha sat there, dumbfounded, furious, and utterly at a loss for words. He was being _suspended_ due to a mistake he had made as a junior agent well over a decade ago. "You can't possibly—"

"You are _dismissed_, Agent Nein."

Sasha snapped his mouth shut and stood up, walking stiffly out of Garrison's office.

"Oh, close the door behind you, would you?"

The force behind Sasha's slam was enough to knock the door's hinges loose.

* * *

Milla, in general, was very much a people person. She loved them. In fact, she would spend hours at parties and clubs just talking to the strangers she met there, happily sharing stories of parties she'd been to in the past with them. She was even kind to those who, for whatever reason, decided to try and pick fights with her. But she had her limits.

And the woman standing behind the car rental desk was very close to stepping over that limit. If forced to give an approximate distance, she would say the woman was all but tap dancing across the frayed edge of her nerves.

"I'm sorry, Miss Vodello, but all of our cars are currently unavailable." The woman said curtly, ignoring the fuming agent in favor of a computer screen that displayed a game of Solitaire. "Perhaps one of our competitors—"

"Darling, there are five cars outside of this very window with your company's logo stamped into the windows." She was tired, annoyed, and simply wanted to be out of the airport before she was forced to kill someone. Every 'random' terrorist screening they had been put through inevitably ended with her explaining why she was traveling with a twelve-year-old boy who was clearly not her son. And, once she managed to convince them that she was not kidnapping Razputin and had no intention of murdering or molesting him, she suffered through four hours of turbulence only to repeat the process when plane landed and allowed its passengers to disembark. After suffering through it for a second time, she was faced with a representative from a car rental facility that seemed intent on making sure her traveling experience was a living hell. "I am not blind, nor am I stupid. Now. If you would _kindly_ arrange for me to rent one of them, I would very much appreciate it."

After a brief staring contest, the woman behind the desk muttered and started the paperwork that eventually won the annoyed agent a sleek car meant for city streets. Every inch of it was polished and the lightning from the storm that had cheerfully followed them from headquarters reflected across its surface.

Razputin was beside himself as he loaded up their clothes and luggage Milla bought at the shops in the airport. "This car is so cool. I bet it was your eye judo that made that lady give it to you."

Milla peered around the driver's seat, giving the young agent a confused look. "My what?"

"Eye judo. Like, you threw her down with a look." He said this as if explained the concept completely, shutting the rear passenger door before poking his head in through the driver's window. "Can I drive?"

"…You don't know how to drive, darling." She gently pushed him back outside the window, rolling it up as he ran around to the passenger door and jumped inside.

"So? You can teach me."

"Not during a rainstorm in a car that isn't mine." She replied, a little amused despite herself, "Ask Sasha to teach you when we get back."

Raz sighed as she started the car and began to drive through the rain. "He just gets this panicked look on his face and says he has to go have a cigarette." He paused, gazing out of the window. "Man, it's been raining a long time."

"It always rains like this during this time of year, darling. The change in the weather causes it."

The rest of the trip went smoothly, much to Milla's relief, until they reached the outskirts of Condenar. The storm had gradually gotten worse the closer they got to their destination, and turned outright violent when they passed into the city limits. The wind threatened to tear control of the car away from her and she was barely able to see the car in front of her through the rain and hail. She managed to keep it under control for a few more miles, braving the storm.

Or, she did until the front right tire blew out and nearly sent the car into a nearby tree. After a sharp curse and epic struggle to keep the car from spinning out of control, she managed to limp over to the side of the highway. She leaned back with a deep sigh.

Raz was peering out of the window, oblivious to the rain. "Uh, Milla? I think the car has a flat tire…"

Milla slammed her head into the steering wheel, and then sighed and got out of the car to go inspect the damage. A car swerved around her, honking angrily, before speeding off into the distance. She ignored it, hoping to replace the tire before she managed to catch a cold.

The driver that sped by her muttered darkly, then dialed in a number on his cell phone. He'd been tailing them ever since they left the airport, though how he managed to keep track of her through the storm was nothing short of a miracle. "Boss? They're here."

* * *

Vladimir had made himself comfortable in Jack's apartment which caused no end of agitation to the unstable pyrokinetic. This was _his_ home, _his_ property. He shouldn't have to answer to some pathetic crime lord in his own house. The man had gone so far as to have his pawns call Jack's number to report in. He hadn't even pretended to ask for permission! Jack managed to keep control of his temper, but he wouldn't forget this. Every assumed privilege was a slight against Jack that he fully intended on repaying.

He was, in a way, a little envious of Vladimir.

Vladimir was anything if not thorough, and the respect he commanded from his underlings was something that Jack found admirable. It was also infuriating, particularly when Vladimir so readily assumed he would follow whatever command he was given. He was not one to bow to the will of anyone save his own, and to be ordered about so casually, to be reminded that he was locked under the thumb of this petty crime lord was more than just annoying. It was an insult to everything Jack had achieved in his life, and everything he still had yet to achieve.

Vladimir stood above him, casually hanging up Jack's phone. He seemed pleased with himself, and expressed it through the neutral tone in his normally cold voice. "It's time. Do what you want with the girl; just see to it that she no longer poses a threat to us. Your prize will lead you to her."

Jack hid his scowl with a smirk. "Such ruthlessness. I'm impressed, Vlad."

His smirk grew into a grin as Vladimir turned to give him an annoyed look. Jack reveled in his control over the Romanian psychic, no matter how slight it was. "Not everyone would throw their own family to the dogs."

"You're no stranger to murdering family yourself. Some of us, however, have valid _reasons_ to do so." He snapped back. "Charlie and Gustav will accompany you."

"What's the matter, Vlad? You don't trust me?" Jack sneered, pointedly ignoring Vladimir's barb. He was already on his way out the door with Vladimir's pathetic henchmen shadowing him.

"I would sooner trust a starving wolf with a fat lamb." He replied coldly.

Jack's laughter echoed back to him, and he scowled. Being forced to rely on such tactics was distasteful, but necessary; treating Jack Dougal as anything more than the mad beast he was only proved how dire his situation had become. Were his grandmother still alive, Jack Dougal would be _begging_ at their feet for protection.

* * *

After replacing the tire with the spare she and Raz found in the trunk and then becoming lost numerous times, Milla finally came to a stop outside of their destination. The storm had, for the moment, calmed down to a steady rain with the occasional rumble of thunder. Brook Hollow Inn was a depressingly small bed and breakfast that, like most of Condenar, seemed to be stuck several generations behind the rest of the nation.

Shutting the car off, Milla turned to look to at Raz, who seemed to be more than ready for action.

"Alright, darling. You know what to do?"

Raz grinned back at her. "Yep. Go in, pretend we're lost, you say something about a room and then we find Andrea Rus…Russel..Russelbutter or whatever her name is."

"Ruszkiewcz." She replied, stepping out of the car and going towards the entrance.

"Okay, seriously, how are you able to say that?"

She chuckled, opening the door for Razputin before following him inside and placing her hand inside her purse. "Go to Iceland. You'll pick it up."

An elderly man, hunched over from the weight of the years and barely taller than Raz, hobbled up to the front desk as they entered, giving them the first genuinely kind smile they had seen since they left the airport. His hair had long since disappeared from his head, and lines had etched themselves across every inch of skin. "Afternoon, strangers! What can I do for ya?"

Milla smiled, "I was hoping you had a room available." She paused, then pulled her hand out of her purse and slid a thin envelope across the counter to the gentleman. "Preferably with a view of your beautiful city."

The old man narrowed his eyes, then took the envelope and opened it. His eyes widened and he smiled again, sliding the envelope back over. "I'd love ta help ya, lady, but there's only one room available. You'll haveta share with another guest, if that's alright."

"That's perfectly fine, darling." She returned the smile as the innkeeper glanced around the empty room before leaning in to speak softly.

"Be careful. The storm's made her twitchy." He leaned back again. "Room's upstairs and to the left. Best view of Condenar in the city. If ya need anything else, find me down here."

Milla nodded then walked upstairs with Raz following close behind. The old man sighed in relief when they left his sight. It was bad enough he took sides in the middle of a family dispute. It was almost unbelievable that he allowed two Psychonauts to come through his home and business untouched.

But then, he thought, it was frightening to think of what would happen if he hadn't helped Andrea.

He glanced up when two more customers walked inside, customers he knew. He grinned, walking around the counter with open arms. "Charlie! Gustav! I haven't seen you boys in years! What're you guys up to these days?"

* * *

Finding the room was no problem. Getting the woman inside to open it proved to be another matter entirely. It took the two of them fifteen minutes and a flash of Milla's badge to get the woman to open the door and allow them inside.

Andrea was a small woman, barely reaching five feet tall and dressed in clothes two sizes too big for her frail body. Her movements were quick, jerky, and she constantly looked over her shoulder and around the room, as though expecting an attack to come from every direction at any moment. The only time she held still was when they reached the inside of her room, where she stopped to stock of them. Her brown eyes widened in shock at Raz, and she snorted in bitter laughter.

"Unbelievable," She said, "To save me from my own family, they send my family's greatest enemy."

Raz looked mildly confused. "What, people with vowels in their names?"

Milla was tense; something didn't feel right and she watched the door carefully. "Razputin, did you notice anyone following us?"

Raz blinked and was about to reply when the first gunshot rang out downstairs.

* * *

Gustav lowered the still smoking gun and casually over the old man's body. Charlie stared after him, and then snapped at him, swiping blood off of his jacket. _Dammit, Rachel's gonna kill me._ He could already hear her bitch at him now. "What the hell did you do _that_ for?"

Gustav quirked a brow, mildly amused by Charlie's attempts to get rid of the blood on his clothes. "The weirdo said no witnesses, yes? I was merely following orders. You've got brain on your shoulder."

Charlie snorted, idly kicking the body over. The elderly man rolled on top of his back, staring blankly at the ceiling with a shocked look on his face. "Could've just erased the guy's memory."

Gustav shrugged, walking up the stairs. If the gunshot hadn't flushed their prey out into Jack's ambush, then he'd have to chase them out. "Too messy."

"Says the man who just blew a guy's head off. How're we gonna explain that away? Vlad said no unnecessary casualties. And I'd call that a pretty fucking unnecessary casualty."

Gustav rolled his eyes, "We are to make this look like suicide, yes? Sometimes, people don't want to go alone."

"Yeah, yeah…You're a fuckin' psycho, man. A regular fuckin' psycho." Charlie grumbled, following him upstairs.

Gustav kicked the door down and, as expected, found an empty room with an open window that let the rain inside. He snorted, clicking the safety back on his gun and putting it in his pocket. "I was hoping they would stay and fight."

"Eh, you know the type, Gus." Charlie peered out of the window, frowning. "They won't fight unless you corner 'em real good. And then they go nuts and shoot people. Like you."

* * *

Milla had been forced to levitate herself, Andrea, and Razputin down to the ground and was struggling to keep them upright during the storm. The three of them had managed to run down a nearby alleyway behind the Inn, staying out of sight and stopping for a brief moment to catch their breath behind a dumpster.

Andrea was beside herself in fury. The rain plastered her hair to her scalp and her clothes sagged heavily from her body, dripping water in a steady stream down her sleeves, making her look not unlike a homeless lunatic. "You _led_ them to me, you damned _fools--_"

Raz was too busy catching his breath to reply, but Milla cut her off. "Be quiet. They'll find us much easier if you keep talking."

Raz glanced around, frowning a little. None of his missions had ever gone bad like this—a fact that excited and worried him. They had to get Andrea to safety and call for backup, or at the very least keep moving so that they weren't easily found. He looked over at Milla.

She met his gaze. _Stay with her, darling. I'll scout ahead for a safe route._

Raz nodded and stood guard near Andrea before helping her move from place to place in the rain with Milla as their guide. Andrea eventually went silent and kept close, glancing over her shoulder nervously.

Milla was beginning to think they would manage to salvage the mission and make it out of this mess unscathed when she noticed the shadows down a particular alley seemed off. Frowning, she kept hidden, looking for a way to scout ahead without exposing herself. A rat scurried out of a trashcan that had been knocked on its side from the wind. It paused, sniffed the air, then scurried down the alley.

Milla wasted no time. She focused on the rat's small form and opened a faint link between them, letting her eyes glaze over while she briefly shared senses with the rat. She wasn't seeing as much as she was feeling; rats had poor eyesight and relied on their whiskers for direction in some cases. This rat in particular seemed to know the alley pretty well—every crack along the wall was familiar, every pebble and piece of trash normal. When it felt something different—something _other_—the rat froze…then squeaked and scurried down into the sewer.

Milla broke the link, pale and shaking. _Oh God, no--_

A low chuckle came from the shadows of the alley, "You always did have a talent for clairvoyance, Agent Vodello."


End file.
